


Who Did That to You

by Sunnyrea



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Battle, Historical, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14159640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Alexander Hamilton and two of his fellow aides-de-camp are sent to escort Mrs. Washington to Valley Forge but they are attacked on the road and Hamilton taken prisoner. Laurens, refusing the usual modes of war, rides to reclaim his captured companion.





	Who Did That to You

**Author's Note:**

> This story is NOT connected to my 'The War' series. It will sound the same since that is just how I write all these men, but it is a bit more dramatic and out of lines of the narrative of that series. So it is a stand alone. Enjoy!  
> This story happened almost 100% because of [this song](https://youtu.be/cAnOt74e9_Q) and suddenly hearing 'oh Laurens.'

John Laurens wakes up with the cold at his back as it prevails now over all of Valley Forge, snow up to a man's ankles, in February of the Continental army’s winter quartering. However, he is blessed to have the warm press of a man curled close to his front, arms wrapped around Laurens' waist and his face pressed into Laurens' neck. Laurens breathes out slowly, curls closer and further under their too small blankets. He sees the sun through the window and knows the pair of them must soon rise as their General, His Excellency George Washington, often rises earliest of all and, as his aides–de–camp, so should they.

However, Laurens cannot yet conjure the will to pull himself away from the warmth and intimacy of his shared bed. He presses his nose into the messy red curls on the pillow beside him and thinks of sleeping into the afternoon, of lazy kisses with a day holding no tasks but to touch every bit of him and watch the flutter of his eyelids and the turn of his lips. Laurens kisses his brow twice and Alexander Hamilton finally opens his eyes.

“You shall keep me in this bed all day with such a pleasing morning's awakening.”

Laurens only smiles back at him as Hamilton's hand squeezes Laurens' side.

Hamilton sucks in a breath. “It is cold.”

“Not so cold,” Laurens says, slipping one of his feet between Hamilton's.

“No, no, you feel quite warm here.” Hamilton presses closer still, kisses the corner of Laurens' jaw.

“Ha, well, not completely.” Laurens turns his head so his nose bumps Hamilton’s. “Only half so.”

Hamilton slides his hand around to rub up and down against Laurens' cold back. Laurens 'hmms' deep in his throat and closes his eyes again. They are fortunate to be granted mornings such as this by the pure luck of having a room in General Washington’s headquarters assigned together. Their fellow aides-de-camp Robert Hanson Harrison, Richard Kidder Meade and Tench Tilghman share the larger aid bedroom while John Fitzgerald resides a floor above in the garret. It may not be their room and their bed for long but Laurens will relish what blessings they have as long as he may.

Hamilton’s hand stops moving over Laurens’ back as he presses a kiss to Laurens’ lips. Laurens opens his eyes once more to Hamilton’s beautiful face. 

Hamilton smiles then pulls his arm back, sitting up. “We must rise, however.”

Laurens looks up at Hamilton, Laurens’ head still on the pillow. “We must?”

Hamilton gives him a rueful look then shifts his legs around quickly and stands from the bed. He huffs and rubs his arms as he hops over to where his uniform lies draped over one chair. “Lord...”

Laurens pulls the blankets around himself in a sort of cocoon, watching the edge of Hamilton's shirt ride up indiscreetly. He smiles wide to himself until Hamilton pulls on new small clothes and then his breeches.

“Come now, Laurens,” Hamilton says as he turns around, fastening buttons. “Do you try to make me jealous?”

“I try to stay warm.”

“We are in a house while most of our men freeze more so in hastily built cabins. Can you really complain?”

Laurens sighs and sits up. “Must you guilt me so early?”

Hamilton picks up his waistcoat and only raises his eyebrows. Laurens frowns and reluctantly kicks the blanket off himself quickly, better to face the cold all at once. He stands from the bed, scooting around Hamilton in the narrow room to find his stockings and save his feet.

“We should need coffee more to warm ourselves than wake us with his snow,” Hamilton says, putting his coat on over his unbuttoned waistcoat. “I feel it creeping in now.”

“And you to ride out today,” Laurens says as he pulls on his second stocking.

Hamilton sighs heavily. “Merde...”

Laurens snorts a laugh and nearly trips as he pulls on his breeches.

The two of them dress slowly, Hamilton fixing his hair far better than Laurens manages his own, but Laurens is not the one who will accompany the General's wife today on her journey to headquarters.

“We leave in only an hour,” Hamilton says as he pulls on his boots. “You should be jealous to miss such a distinction as Mrs. Washington.”

“Do not try so, Hamilton, you know me well pleased to not be riding in the snow for hours as you, Meade and Fitzgerald shall.” Laurens pulls his cravat from a drawer and waistcoat from another. “And, she is coming here so I shall see her after all.”

Hamilton makes a disgruntled noise. “It is a needed and noble task for the day.”

“Yes, yes. You keep your gallantry and I shall keep the fire in the office.”

Hamilton frowns at Laurens as he stands up. He leans down over Laurens where he buttons the cuffs of his breeches and kisses Laurens hard so Laurens loses his breath. Hamilton pulls back and pushes an errant hair of Laurens' behind his ear. “I shall be sure to put my freezing hands and lips on you as soon as I am able upon my return then.”

Laurens stares up at him still grinning. “Please do.”

Hamilton 'humphs' again, though he smiles and moves to the door. He pulls away the chair they placed there under the door handle; they may not indulge in any intimate passions with a house so full but even the manner of their sleeping could cause question. 

Hamilton opens the door – he has breakfast to find and messages to check before he must ensure his horse with his servant and his fellow aide's progress with only an hour allowed – and glances quickly back at Laurens. “I shall see you upon my return if not before we leave.”

Laurens nods. “Keep warm as you can.”

Hamilton nods and turns out of the room, coat flipping out behind him.

Laurens finds his way downstairs fifteen minutes or so after Hamilton, dressed now in his wool uniform that helps well enough indoors to keep him warm. He passes the General's office and sees Fitzgerald standing speaking to the General, the Marquis de Lafayette standing behind him. Lafayette glances up when he hears Laurens and smiles. Laurens sees the hand on the grandfather clock in the General's office near seven, later than he realized and soon to when the trio intend to leave. 

Laurens pokes his head into the aide office seeing only Harrison seated at one table, writing diligently. “Is no one else about?”

Harrison looks up at Laurens. “Meade and Hamilton have gone to ready their horse. Tilghman, I believe, is out in the field assisting Gibbs with more cabin construction. I have heard of at least one losing its roof during the night.”

Laurens shakes his head as he walks in and sits across from Harrison. The fire in the room is low but warm enough to reach the table. Harrison hands the draft of a letter in pencil for Laurens to make the fair copy to send, General Greene in the address.

Fitzgerald enters the office some ten minutes into Laurens' writing, his hat under his arm.

“We shall be leaving shortly. I hope you shall not be inundated with too much work during our absence.”

“You shall be back this afternoon with all luck,” Harrison replies. “We shall manage, especially it being winter.”

“And winter may also slow us down,” Fitzgerald notes. Then he turns back to the office door, putting his hat on his head. “Good morning to you both.”

“I shall see you out,” Laurens says, hastily putting his quill in its stand and rising to follow Fitzgerald to the door.

Laurens stays on the second step as Fitzgerald makes his way down, his servant waiting with his horse. Hamilton and Meade wait in seat for Fitzgerald. Hamilton catches Laurens' eye and smiles at him.

Laurens tips his hat at the three of them. “Do ride well and bring the General his wife in all speed.”

“Oh, well,” Meade says, “I had considered leaving her to make her own way and enjoy a ride in the snow for my own pleasure.”

Hamilton only shakes his head and Fitzgerald hisses a chastisement Laurens cannot hear from where he stands.

Meade holds up a hand with a nod, replying loudly enough so Laurens may hear him say, “Yes, yes, my apologies. Blame my ill humor on the hour then or the cold if you must.”

Fitzgerald looks back up at Laurens. “Be so good as to tell the General we are under way?”

Laurens nods, a shiver running through him as the wind blows around them all. The three men turn their horses round, Hamilton at the rear. He spares a moment to shoot another smile at Laurens. “Adieu, Laurens.”

Laurens grins. “Bonne journée”

 

A four–hour ride through the snow takes Alexander Hamilton and his two companions to their appointed meeting at an inn on the outskirts of Wilmington. Mrs. Washington spent the night in Wilmington with a friend of the General's before the final leg of her journey escorted to Valley Forge. They plan to take a route well clear of Philadelphia through mostly woods and less settlements. Though their main force camps near, there are loyalists aplenty in Pennsylvania while Philadelphia itself remains under British control. However, Hamilton foresees no trouble on their journey. Mrs. Washington may be the General's wife but she is still a woman and the statues of war do not look favorably upon harm to an officer's family.

Hamilton, Meade and Fitzgerald all dismount outside the small inn where a servant waits for them. Nearby a small, enclosed carriage also waits ready with three traveling chests tied to the back. 

“Sirs.” The man bows once. “The lady is within.”

“We do not need a rest if she is ready to journey forth,” Fitzgerald says.

“Though we may water the horses while she prepares?” Meade asks.

Hamilton nods at Meade as he passes behind Fitzgerald.

“Is there any news we have need of? Anything for Mrs. Washington herself?”

The servant shakes his head. “She has two men with her. She did not inform me of any further needs.”

Hamilton nods as a black man exits the inn behind the servant, carrying a smaller bag, which he puts into the body of the carriage. Fitzgerald opens his mouth as if to speak but, before he is able, a woman who is undoubtedly Mrs. Washington exits the inn.

Hamilton and Fitzgerald pull off their hats and bow their heads to her at once. She nods back at them. “Lieutenant Colonels.”

“Madam,” Hamilton says. “We are ready to escort you to his Excellency.”

She smiles. “You must be Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. My husband has written of you.”

Hamilton purses his lips slightly in his only sign of his surprise. “I am honored.” Hamilton smiles and decides to be bold. “Did he write of my skills with the pen or on the field?”

Hamilton feels Fitzgerald shift beside him but Hamilton keeps looking at Mrs. Washington. She smiles slowly at him, then her eyes tick up. “Your hair.”

Fitzgerald huffs a quiet laugh as Hamilton puts his hat back on his head. She is even better than he expected. “Very good, Madam. If you are ready?”

She smiles demurely at the pair of them. “If you do not require any rest or food before our journey back?”

“We have eaten on our way and we may rest when you are safely behind our lines, Mrs. Washington,” Fitzgerald says.

“Then I am ready to set out.”

A second black man comes out behind Mrs. Washington. He hands her a small purse.

“On our way,” she says curtly to the man and he moves toward the carriage.

Hamilton's eyes linger on the two men for a moment – most certainly slaves – but he says nothing. Mrs. Washington turns back to the innkeeper, pulling some coins from her purse. Hamilton and Fitzgerald turn away. 

Meade walks up to them, gesturing to where the three horses stand tethered at a front post. “Some water for all three and I think we should be fine to set out. None appear over tired.”

“Good,” Hamilton says. “I should prefer the warmth of our office as soon as we are able.”

“The carriage shall slow us,” Meade remarks.

“We knew this,” Fitzgerald replies, glancing back as the inn servant turns around inside.

Mrs. Washington walks up to the carriage, the one man holding open the door and giving her a hand inside. Once the door closes, the man turns to look at the three aides.

“Ready?” Fitzgerald asks.

The man only nods back then climbs up into the driver seat beside the other man holding the reigns.

“Well,” Meade says as he walks toward the horses. “Let us put on a show of our great skill in riding.” Meade grins at them. “Who shall take the rear?”

 

The trio of aides on horse and the carriage ride through the woods at a leisurely pace. They passed some smaller towns and houses on their way but now ride in predominantly wilderness on their way around Philadelphia. No snow falls from the sky now but the cold still grips tightly and the snow on the ground crunches with ice. Hamilton and Fitzgerald lead ahead of the carriage with Meade behind. They have ridden more than two hours now with still some time yet to go. Hamilton's nose runs despite his best efforts and his hands feel stiff even in his leather gloves. 

As they come upon a bend, Hamilton thinks, not out of any sort of real concern, that the spot would do well for an ambush. Then Hamilton hears a musket shot and a shout behind him. Before he can react fully to the first sound another several shots split the air making the horses of the carriage whinny and stamp. Hamilton whirls around in his saddle, looking for the source of the shots.

“There!” Fitzgerald shouts as he turns his horse about.

Hamilton sees a flash of green of a Queen's Ranger uniform among the snow on the hill. He urges his horse back – they must protect Mrs. Washington. One of Mrs. Washington's drivers lies in the snow, blood around his head. The second one sits slumped over in his seat so Hamilton cannot see his face but he does not move. A flurry of men, a dozen at least, not just Rangers but Hessians as well, come suddenly down the hill. Meade reaches them first, firing his weapon. He does not appear to hit anyone as none stop. Fitzgerald fires too behind Hamilton just as he reaches the opposite side of the carriage. 

He jumps from his horse and puts his back to the door. “Stay within!” He shouts so Mrs. Washington can hear him.

Hamilton readies his pistol as quickly as he is able then he whirls around the carriage and fires at the enemy. He sees a hessian soldier jerk and fall down the hill leaving a streak of blood in the snow. Hamilton pulls out his sword and comes around the other side of the carriage to face the soldiers with Meade and Fitzgerald.

“We must move!” Fitzgerald says as three of their enemy reach the base of the hill. “There are too many. We must take her out of here!”

A shot whizzes close to Hamilton’s face, nicking his cheek. Hamilton stumbles once then lunges forward, clashing his sword against the axe of a hessian. Two hessians force their way around Fitzgerald and hack as the wheels of the carriage, snapping off two spokes.

“Back, damn you!” Fitzgerald shouts, shoving one Hessian bodily away and waving his sword at the other. 

The horses still attached to the carriage buck and fight, jerking the carriage forward a yard in their fear, surprising all the men around them.

In the gap Hamilton snaps, “Go, Fitzgerald.” He hits a Ranger in the nose with the butt of his pistol. “Take Meade and Mrs. Washington and ride, now!”

“Hamilton, you –”

A gun shot close between them cuts off Fitzgerald’s words, so they both duck and another ranger lunges for Hamilton with his sword. Hamilton falls to the ground, only his sword up in time to protect him from the man over him now. The Ranger's knee digs painfully into Hamilton's thigh as he tries to make contact with his steel on Hamilton's flesh. Hamilton swings his other arm around, catching the back of the man's head with the metal of his gun. The man yelps and jerks enough in his surprise for Hamilton to throw him off, kick him in the knee. 

Hamilton stands up just in time to see a man behind Meade; Meade does not see him. He charges for Meade, sword in hand, Hamilton has no time to stop it. Then Mrs. Washington lunges forward, pulls an axe from the Hessian’s very belt, and plunges it deep into the Hessian's throat. Blood spills over her pale gloves and sprays her gray dress, spots on her cheek. She stares, still and opened mouthed, then yanks the axe back so the man crumples to the ground. Meade turns to her in surprise – Hamilton did not see her leave the carriage either. She stands staring at the axe until Meade pulls it from her hand and hurries her toward his horse. Hamilton sees Meade limping, a wound in his thigh Hamilton does not know how he obtained. 

Two of the Rangers coming down the hill stop to check their bloodied companion. Hamilton sees an opening now. Hamilton turns, sees three men on Fitzgerald, two more on the hill, the man Hamilton pushed away standing once more, another man searching the carriage. Hamilton throws his empty pistol toward the two men on the hill causing them to duck and stumble. Then he races toward Fitzgerald. He slashes his sword across the back of the nearest man then yanks Fitzgerald away. He shoves him in the back toward his horse.

“Go!”

“Hamilton, you cannot –”

“Go!” Hamilton shouts again. “Meade has her, go!”

One Ranger tries to shoot at Fitzgerald but Hamilton elbows him suddenly in the throat.

Fitzgerald runs to his horse, puts a foot in the stirrup and swings himself up. “Follow us!” Fitzgerald shouts as he kicks his horse's side and gallops after the retreating form of Meade and Mrs. Washington.

One hessian shouts something in German, running toward Hamilton's horse huddled off the path near a tree, clearly hoping to pursue the riders.

“No!” Hamilton shouts. He crouches down, picks up one of the broken spokes and throws it toward his horse. The horse neighs in alarm and trots quickly away down the road and from the Hessian. 

A ranger grabs Hamilton’s arm, attempts to pull it behind his back. Hamilton turns into the motion and jabs at the other man with his sword. The man jumps back, letting go of Hamilton's arm.

“Nothing!” the man in the carriage shouts, “nothing here.”

“They are gone! Sie ist weggeritten!” 

“And you shall not catch them!” Hamilton says, his sword up with three men in front of him and two left behind. 

He knows Fitzgerald shot at least one man, Hamilton one on the hill and Mrs. Washington slew her own. He does not know how many more remain nor does he see their mounts, if they have them. Fitzgerald is now disappeared around the bend once more in the road. Would they try to follow the tracks of the horse? Surely not all the way back to their encampment.

“They are gone,” Hamilton says with a smile, the men in front of him frowning and cursing.

Hamilton tries to think how he might make his own escape but before he can consider more than the idea of five against one, something hard comes down on the back of his head and his vision blackens before he hits the snow.

 

The door to General Washington’s headquarters slams open in almost the same moment that Fitzgerald cries, “Help,” and turns right back out the door.

Laurens and Tilghman, seated at work, stand up at once and hurry outside, Harrison saying something behind them. Outside in the snow, Fitzgerald turns back toward the steps with Mrs. Washington leaning on his arm as Laurens and Tilghman exit the house.

“Madam!” Tilghman cries, moving down the steps to support her other side.

It is then Laurens notices the blood on her hands and the front of her dress.

“Mrs. Washington, are you –”

“It is not hers.” Laurens looks past the trio to Meade struggling to dismount his horse. “In fact, she earned her place here now even more than we two.”

“Your Excellency!” Laurens hears Harrison yell from within the house. “Your Excellency, your wife!”

Laurens jumps off the steps as the two men lead Mrs. Washington up, then moves around Meade's horse. He offers two hands to help the man down, blood visible to Laurens on Meade’s leg.

“What happened?” Harrison asks.

Laurens turns, Meade's arm over his shoulder, to Harrison, Lafayette and General Washington crowded in the door.

“Martha!” The General exclaims taking his wife's hands in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.

“I am well,” Mrs. Washington says, squeezing the General's hands. “I am unhurt. Your aides acted most bravely and mindfully.”

“What happened?” Harrison repeats as Fitzgerald and Tilghman help Mrs. Washington inside past the General, his hands following her.

“We were ambushed,” Meade says, “a group of Hessians and Rangers disabled her carriage and attacked us. They had a clear mind to take Mrs. Washington. She stabbed one herself before we three took to horse.”

“I shall see to my wife, gentlemen,” the General says. “Harrison, please compile a full report from the Lieutenant Colonels.”

Harrison walks down the stairs with Lafayette beside him.

Laurens looks around them, back along the path of hoof prints in the snow where their horse came “Where is Hamilton?”

Harrison glances back where Laurens looks but no one says anything. Meade winces as he shifts off his injured leg, leaning more heavily on Laurens.

“Following?” Lafayette asks hopefully but they see no other horse riding their way.

Laurens turns back to Meade. “Where is Hamilton?”

“They set upon us quickly,” Meade explains as Lafayette crouches low to check on the scrap of cloth tied around Meade's leg. “Twice as many to our few...”

“Where is Hamilton?” Laurens asks a third time, his voice rising in concern.

“He allowed us time to escape,” Meade admits as Harrison shifts Meade away from Laurens to check the cut on his brow. “We had to protect Mrs. Washington...” Meade looks at Laurens. “We were forced to leave him behind.”

Lafayette stands once more and makes eye contact with Laurens. Then he looks at Meade as Harrison presses his handkerchief to Meade's head. “Was he injured?”

Meade shakes his head at Lafayette. “I do not know. We left at all speed we could to ensure Mrs. Washington's escape. I can only say I heard his sword drawn but it was he alone against their five or more.”

“And you left him?” Laurens growls with venom.

Harrison and Meade's eyebrows shoot up. Lafayette cuts in, “They had little choice and a lady, our General's wife, to secure.”

Laurens bites his teeth together and turns away. Fitzgerald walks with Tilghman close behind leading Fitzgerald's horse. Tilghman takes the reigns of Meade horse, nods and leads them both on.

“Is Mrs. Washington unharmed?” Lafayette asks Fitzgerald.

He nods back. “She is a most resourceful and bold woman. A soldier came upon Meade, his back turned and Mrs. Washington slew the man quite by surprise with the man’s own axe.”

“Mon dieu!”

“Where was this?” Laurens asks Fitzgerald suddenly as he whips his head back around, eyes darting between both men. “Nearer Philadelphia? On the road? Where?”

“Miles,” Fitzgerald answers, “on the road.”

“An hour ride at least,” Meade adds as Fitzgerald takes his arm to lead him inside.

“Come now,” Harrison says, gesturing to headquarters as he begins to walk toward it. Laurens just stares the other two down, not moving.

“I know what you may ask, Laurens,” Fitzgerald begins. “We had no choice and I should not think Hamilton killed.”

“He may yet return,” Lafayette adds.

“Have you no more idea of where?” Laurens interrupts before they may step away. “How far from Philadelphia, from the British line?”

“I cannot say, it was a rush. Somewhere along the road.”

“Hamilton did what was needed,” Meade says. “And the General will thank him for it.”

“That shall not help him now,” Laurens snaps. “Now I need their path so we may reclaim him.”

“Reclaim him?”

Lafayette grips Laurens' wrist suddenly. “Go inside,” he says to Meade and Fitzgerald. “Make your report.”

The pair nod, then move to the stairs, Meade leaning on Fitzgerald. As soon as they reach the door, Laurens pulls his hand away from Lafayette roughly. He stares at the snow where the hoof prints of the horses have become less distinct with snow now falling from the sky.

“Laurens,” Lafayette says, his voice low, “he may return yet. It is possible he evaded capture.”

Tilghman passes by them, the horses back in the barn, nodding once. Laurens watches his footprints, past them, to the trees, no flash of red hair he would wish to see riding toward them.

“We may be pleased enough in this moment at the return of the lady and our compatriot's safe return, can we not?”

No other horse, no beautiful man on its back, just hoof prints slowly filling in. “No.”

Laurens turns on his heel and kicks up snow as he rushes back into the house. He hears a noise of surprise from Lafayette. Before the Frenchman may follow Laurens, however, Laurens exits the house with his hat and a musket in one hand while swooping his cloak over his shoulders with the other. Lafayette's mouth drops open but Laurens keeps right on by him toward the barn. He will be damned if he stands here and waits, if he allows his Alexander to be taken as a prisoner and harmed or kept from Laurens when Laurens can stop it. He will search the whole woods beyond Philadelphia if he must but he will win Hamilton back.

“Laurens!” Lafayette hisses behind Laurens but Laurens keeps marching toward the barn. “Laurens, mon ami, stop!”

Laurens shoves his hat on his head. “I have no time to waste.”

“What should you do? One man to invade the entire British line?”

“It has been only hours. I have time yet to stop them before they make the main camp or wherever they may go.”

“You do not know this!”

“I have to try!” Laurens snaps as he reaches the barn door and bangs it open.

“This is beyond convention,” Lafayette says staying close at Laurens’ arm as Laurens gathers blanket and saddle for a horse. “Conventions of war and his rank give him safe harbor as a prisoner. He shall be treated well.”

“’He shall be treated well?’” Laurens parrots. “Do you hear your words? Do you not recall our frequent letters of protest to Howe and his blind eye to the statutes of war and his hell of a prison ship? You would have me leave Hamilton to that?”

“You do not know he –”

“Or they could be mercenaries? Could they not? And with Hessians and Rangers, how disciplined might they be before they make their lines. You cannot guarantee any such safety. I would not leave his life to chance!”

Laurens leads a brown mare from her stall, heaving the saddle on her back and quickly tightening the straps.

“But your actions,” Lafayette says, his tactic clearly changing. “What should be said, how should this appear?”

They have not spoken it aloud before, the nature of Laurens and Hamilton’s relationship. Lafayette is no fool, more observant than most and their close friend. He has never said such, but Laurens has suspected his knowledge and Lafayette has left hints before.

Laurens shoots Lafayette a glare now. “I do not care.”

“Laurens…”

Laurens finishes securing the saddle. He slides the musket he brought into a strap on the saddle, securing it in place. He then crosses to one of the horses just returned with Meade and Fitzgerald. He sees an axe of German make on one saddle, an axe liberated from the Hessians who took Hamilton. He yanks the axe out of the saddle making the horse stamp its feet. He hears Lafayette’s sudden intake of breath as Laurens walks around to the other side of his own horse and adds the axe to the saddle bags.

“Laurens,” Lafayette insists against Laurens’ silence. “It is irrational. It cannot do but raise questions.”

“We are friends,” Laurens retorts as he picks up a bridle and slips it over the horse’s muzzle. “That is not unknown. What else should they say?”

“Do not pretend, Laurens!” Lafayette hisses, finally gripping Laurens’ arm.

Laurens stops, the horse’s bridle now secure and stares at Lafayette. Yes, why pretend? “They may find me out, they may say what they think, they may curse me, condemn me after and I shall take any consequence if it means him here and safe once more. Do you understand me?”

Lafayette’s hand falls away. Laurens turns, steps up on a near block and mounts his horse. Lafayette looks up, his face a mix of concern and mourning.

“I shall not ask you to lie for me,” Laurens says. “Tell his Excellency what you will.”

“I shall not betray you.”

Laurens nods once. “I will only return with Hamilton.”

Lafayette bites his lip and nods. “Bon chance.”

“Adieu.” He kicks the horse’s side and gallops out of the barn.

 

Hamilton's sensory awareness comes back to him in waves and sparks – he feels movement, the slow plod of a horse – he sees snow – the sound of voices he does not recognize – snow again with something dark, spots like black or red – is that blood, yes, his blood – then a shout, he cannot understand it, German? It must be. He feels something cutting into his wrists – the press of a saddle but in the wrong places – snow and tree trunks. A voice says, “what about there?” 

Hamilton gasps and comes fully back to consciousness as the base of his spine hits the ground hard and his back slams into something wood. He winces and his head stabs, nausea rising so he must bend to his side for a moment. He swallows hard, nothing coming up, then manages to open his eyes. He sees the lines of a wood floor below him, the circle of the head of a nail. They are inside somewhere. He sits up slowly and tries to reach back to touch his head. Then he notices his hands are bound.

“Wer bist du?”

Hamilton drags his eyes across the one room hut – no chimney, no fire, two crates, one ranger sitting atop the crates, two Hessians leaning against the crates, one picking his nails with a knife, cracks in the wood too wide to have ever been a home – just something for storage, once part of a farm?

“Hallo! Wer bist du?”

Fingers snap in front of Hamilton's face so he looks sharply at the man sitting on an over turned barrel in front of him, another hessian. His mustache covers much of his top lip and melted snow drips from his uniform. Hamilton bites the edge of his lip and just stares back at the man.

“No speak? Uh?” The Hessian pulls his knife from his belt and taps the pointed end of it on Hamilton's brow – Hamilton wonders wildly what happened to his hat. “Soll ich dich schneiden und dann sehen?”

“Enough.” Three rangers walk in from the far door, though in a hut so small it seems only a few yards from where Hamilton sits against the wall. “I told you I knew who he was.”

One of the rangers carries a pair of hares in hand. He gestures to the man on top of the crates. The man shrugs at him once.

“You're starting the fire.”

The crate man scoffs, “In the snow?”

“You want to eat?”

The crate ranger sighs then hops off his seat and follows the hare ranger outside once more. 

The other ranger crosses to take the available seat while the man who first spoke when they walked inside, shoos the Hessian off his barrel and takes his spot. “Hello.”

Hamilton stares at him and remains silent. He counts in his head – four rangers, three Hessians, unless there are more outside? He cannot recall how many, if any, might truly have been killed in their bout.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” the Ranger seated in front of Hamilton begins. “You may not recall me just now but I recall you.”

Hamilton presses his lips tightly together. He tries to find any familiarity in this man, dark hair, eyes just too far apart, a divot in his chin and better teeth than most.

The man tilts his head. “Yes, I thought not, but better for me I should say.”

“Fragen Sie ihn nach Washington.”

The non–familiar Ranger picks up a tin lying near his barrel and throws it at the Hessian now standing against the wall. “Ruhig!”

Hamilton may not understand German, but he understands the word Washington.

The Ranger turns back to him. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves first. I am Captain John Arbor.” He gestures to Hamilton. “And you are Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”

Hamilton's teeth clench together; he had hoped the man bluffed.

“I must admit I have not learned your Christian name but I imagine ‘Hamilton’ well enough for some familiarity and as we first saw one another at a prisoner exchange, I call that even more so.”

“And that is your plan now for me, an exchange?” Hamilton finally says. “I am no General. If you imagine some exchange of higher rank that may benefit you somehow, I would have to call you mistaken.”

Arbor smiles and threads his hands together, leaning over his legs closer to Hamilton. “Ah, but this is only your rank, not your position.” Arbor reaches out toward Hamilton – Hamilton resists the urge to flinch away – and touches the fine fabric of his green riband across his chest. Arbor smiles then pulls back once more. “An aide–de–camp too.”

Hamilton feigns ignorance and disinterest. “Yes, it does not change my rank.”

“But an aide–de–camp to General Washington.”

Hamilton keeps up his petulance. “And?”

Arbor keeps on smiling. “I do not think you dim, so perhaps you should not think me so. We may be on opposite sides but we fight for the same country.”

“We do not.”

“I fight for the country of my king while you choose to tear it away.”

“I fight for our freedom.”

“Ah yes, because we are all slaves.”

Hamilton frowns, tries to shift up straighter against the wall. “You prefer to kneel, I prefer to stand.”

“And you are doing so well at this now.” Arbor pulls a small cuttoe from his belt. “But to my point.” He points with the short sword mere centimeters from Hamilton's nose. “My point being that while I fight for a king, I do not stand near him each day; you fight for your new king and stand right beside him.”

“The General is not a king,” Hamilton snaps, unable to stop himself. “And you use such terms as are dying now. Does your king fight on the field? My General does.”

Arbor twists the sword around once in his hand then digs it into the wood floor near his foot. “Just so, your General fights and plans for the field and the fight and you know his mind and his actions and such plans as you are one of his aide–de–camp.”

Hamilton breathes in slowly and a tendril of concern starts to grow in the back of his mind.

“I said I did not think you dim and you should not think me so because now that I have you here, do you think we should merely add you to the cache of American prisoners when you have such knowledge in your head?”

Hamilton clenches his teeth again and swallows. He realizes they plan to interrogate him here, now.

“I have nothing to offer you,” Hamilton replies tersely.

Arbor makes a face. “I have asked you nothing yet.”

“You do not need to.”

“Charming.” Arbor taps the point of cuttoe against the wood. “Perhaps you should wait for what I might ask first, perhaps I my questions will not be too offensive for you to answer because I should think it obvious what the consequences may be if you do not.”

“You call us rebels and here you flout the proper modes of war, such behavior unbecoming of gentlemen?”

The ranger and one of the hessians in the room laugh at once, the one hessian hisses something in German that makes the last man snort.

“Do you truly believe as you say?” Arbor says stabbing his cuttoe deep into the wood so he may let go of the hilt and leave it standing free. “I have seen very few Gentlemen in this war and I wonder where you think you might find one?”

Hamilton wants to speak of the General's conduct, he wants to list his fellow aides, Lafayette, he wants to say Laurens, his Laurens. But he says none of this. He knocks his back against the wall and smirks. “Perhaps you only find what you reveal in yourself.”

The ranger on top of the crates whistles once and shakes his head. Arbor smiles slowly. “Meager insults.”

“For a meager man,” Hamilton counters.

“Enough banter.” Arbor glances at the Hessian behind him. “Bring Klaus herein.”

Hamilton glances at the door as the Hessian walks out. “Klaus?”

Arbor threads his fingers together again and taps his boot on the floor once. A moment later the two rangers walk back into the hut, both looking morose.

Arbor frowns at them. “What are you doing?”

“We could not start a fire.”

Arbor blows out a breath. “Smith sit down and Roberts, someone must keep watch.”

“In this cold? And just who might be roaming the woods?”

“Now!” Arbor insists.

Roberts frowns but turns back around and walks outside once more just as the hessian and his fellow man, who must be Klaus, walk in.

“You might work on your entrance,” Hamilton says with evident sarcasm.

Klaus laughs once. “Humor, yes.”

“When we perform the play, you'll know.” Arbor retorts dryly. “Now, tell us about Valley Forge.”

Hamilton purses his lips. “It is located in Pennsylvania and it is covered in snow.”

Klaus kicks Hamilton sharply in the side so he huffs out air and bends over part way. –– He thinks of St. Croix with the aches all over his body and he and his mother lying sick ––

“Smart, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, so smart. We desire the layout, your General's headquarters. Where in the camp may he be found?”

Hamilton only glares back at Arbor, breathing in deeply at the same time that Klaus punches him in the jaw. Hamilton groans once and whips his head back around. His vision doubles for a few seconds then he stretches his jaw around –– thinks of Trenton the sound of canons and sparks too near his face ––

“Valley Forge, Hamilton, your encampment and your plans for Philadelphia. It will not be winter forever; you must have a mind to reclaim your city.”

“I have never been to Philadelphia.”

Klaus grabs the cuttoe out of the wood, flips it around in his hand and strikes Hamilton across the face with the hilt, cutting his cheek and lip. Hamilton cannot stop a small cry at the impact and feels blood drip down his chin. He sees a drop on his breeches –– he thinks of Brandywine, fog and heat so his head spun ––

Hamilton stares up at Arbor, his barrel like a judge's seat in this tiny hut of an interrogation court. “Do you fear blood on your own hands?”

Arbor's eyes shift slowly to Klaus. Then he suddenly yanks the sword out of Klaus' hand, reaches out and grabs Hamilton's bound hands. He then slashes the point of the blade across Hamilton's left palm. Hamilton gasps more in surprise than pain as Arbor grips Hamilton's bloody hand. “Oh, quite the contrary. I am fond of red.”

 

Laurens rides on the path from Valley Forge through the woods. He followed the hoof prints of Meade and Fitzgerald for some time before the snow erased any traces to be seen. However, he knows the surest route would be the main road through the woods, past Philadelphia and further south. If they came from where the carriage stopped then Laurens should at least find that.

It takes just under an hour of hard riding before Laurens does indeed come upon a brown carriage in the middle of the road, its front wheel bent and no horses within sight. It appears some attempt was made to push it toward the woods but the effort must not have lasted long.

Laurens shifts his leg around and jumps off his horse. He pulls his pistol and makes it ready with shot. Then he walks slowly around the carriage. The door to the body hangs open. One trunk, which must belong to Mrs. Washington, lies fallen in the snow though still latched closed. Some pieces of broken wood lie around the bent wheel. Laurens spies some blood on the traces for the horses and more in the snow as Laurens comes around the front of the carriage. Laurens sucks in a breath – not Hamilton's blood, it cannot be. It is then he notices the two bodies just beyond the tree line. Though a hasty job was done to cover them with the men's own cloaks and some branches, Laurens has no trouble seeing the legs and boots on the white of the snow.

Laurens breathes in once through his nose then marches over. He pulls back one cloak, scattering twigs. Underneath lie two black men, neither which Laurens recognizes.

Laurens drops the cloaks back over the men. “My condolences,” he mutters, then looks back at the broken carriage.

Laurens walks around the carriage once, sees old footprints, mud mixed with the snow and the ruts caused by the carriage. He glances inside the carriage then stops. He turns around and walks to the open door. Inside lie two more bodies, a pair of Hessian soldiers.

“You felt it good enough to shield your own fallen men from the snow but not them?” Laurens says, glancing back at the two unfortunates under the cloak.

Laurens huffs once more and slams the door to the carriage shut. He cannot linger here. The longer he waits, the further away his Hamilton becomes. The question now would be, where would they go?

Laurens turns his head in the direction he knows Philadelphia to be. Would they ride the whole way to the city? If Hamilton is able he would surely fight and slow them down. If not... Would they make a camp closer? Would they stop along the way? Do they have some other plan?

“Blast,” Laurens huffs to himself.

He cannot think for these men. He can only follow. 

Laurens looks around the ground, tries to figure out where he should follow in the mess of footprints and mud and blood. He can see the signs of many pairs of feet and some horses, more than what would have been Meade and Fitzgerald's in flight.

“They took the carriage horses,” Laurens says to himself. “And Hamilton's.”

Were the men on foot originally? If that is the case, they must have a camp or something closer. Laurens picks a set of hoof prints, faint but enough, leading away from Valley Forge. It is the only thing that makes sense. Laurens turns back to his horse, uses the wood of the carriage to heave himself back into seat then he kicks his horse off down the road again.

He follows the path, trying to keep an eye on the signs in the snow of the men who came before him. He sees some drops of blood on his way and knows his path is right. Then he comes up on something black, as he nears, he recognizes it as a hat.

Laurens jumps down one more, picks up the hat. It has a green cockade tucked into its straps. “Hamilton...”

Laurens clambers back onto his horse, teeth tight and the hat in hand. He rides faster down the road. He rides for some time, eyes darting through the woods, trying to see any sign of people, his quarry or not, any sign to tell him where to go. A bend in the path holds him up, unsure at first where the country road continues due to some trees overgrown, but then he spies several broken branches and the hoof prints become clear again. He wants to shout, to yell Hamilton's name but what good would it do to warn his enemy? He must keep his heart in check and trust his sword to win when needed. 

Then the path forks. Laurens pulls the reigns of the horse back and stops. The hoof prints go off in both directions in the snow. 

“How can...” Laurens stares. “Did they split their force?”

He sees blood again in the snow in one direction. It could be Hamilton's or it could one of their own. Perhaps some were injured and were heading back to their main camp? But why then take Hamilton elsewhere instead of their camp? Perhaps someone else came down this road?

“Where are you?” Laurens growls.

He does not have time for this. There is always the chance they are still close enough. Laurens pulls his still loaded pistol off his saddle, points it into the wood and fires. He remains still, pats his horse's flank once to keep her calm and listens. After he reloads and fires a second shot, he hears it – distant footsteps crunching over snow and sticks.

Laurens grins and quickly climbs off his horse, pulling her back into the trees. He pulls off his cloak and hat, placing both on the mare, pulls his rifle off the saddle, putting the strap over his head with the rifle slung over his back. Lastly, he shoves the axe into the strap of his belt as he readies his pistol once more. He leaves the horse far back in the brush then waits, his back against a wide enough tree. He hears the crunching grow, a curse, and then branches moving. He hears a voice say something he cannot understand then he knows they stand on the road. It sounds like more than one person, likely only two.

He listens as they move closer. He hears one man say, “Ist das ein Pferd?”

Laurens spins out from behind the tree, his sword drawn in one hand and his pistol in the other. He fires and hits one man low in the chest. The Ranger's mouth opens in surprise and he falls fast. The second man still looked the wrong way when Laurens first fired, so Laurens comes upon him before he may bring his own rifle to bear on Laurens. Laurens knocks the rifle from the Hessian's hands with his sword then grabs the man's collar. The man punches out wildly but misses as he stumbles forward. Laurens pulls him close and presses his sword against the Hessian's neck before the man may draw his weapon up. 

“Where is he?” Laurens asks.

The man does not move, frowns at Laurens. “Ich verstehe nicht.”

“No, you do not understand?” Laurens lets go of the man's collar, grabs his hand and bends back his ring finger until Laurens hears it crack. The man screams and Laurens grabs his collar again. “You understand me. Wo ist er,” Laurens repeats with his own paltry German.

The man hisses, tries to cradle his hand against his chest but Laurens shakes him again, does not give him time to think. “Wo ist er!”

The hessian's eyes tick behind him and he gestures back with his unwounded hand.

“Take me,” Laurens demands.

Laurens spins the man around, puts his sword at the back of the man's neck and they walk. If the two men walked here from the sound of Laurens' shot then it is close enough to leave Laurens' horse. Laurens gives no thought to the man bleeding on the road.

It takes about ten minutes, carefully picking through the snow around tangled branches and hidden stones before Laurens sees the hut and the horses tethered outside it.

The Hessian starts to say, “Es ist –” then Laurens hits him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. The man goes down and Laurens steps right over him.

He keeps behind trees, moves himself closer. As he nears, he hears the sound of voices then a shout of pain and someone snapping back, followed by another thump and a cry. Laurens knows that shout, that sound, the voice of his Hamilton he can always hear in his mind, and they are hurting him.

 

Hamilton lies on his side now; he feels the first wound they inflicted on his head pounding away in a steady rhythm. At points, he feared passing out from this alone. He tastes blood in his mouth and feels it between his fingers, his palm throbbing. He knows bruises will ring his torso soon, the hessian's boots pointed and sharp. Hamilton absently fears for the state of his uniform, have they ripped it or stained it with blood?

He breathes in and out slowly. He thinks when he was laid low with fever only months ago, the strange pass of days with the burning of his head and his thoughts swirling unable to focus or perceive the world around him. These men are not worse than this and if they should kill him then what eventual prisoner exchange would they gain then? Of course, this does not stop them from hurting him.

“Sit up now, Lieutenant Colonel,” Arbor says. “It is quite unbecoming of your rank.”

“Uh huh,” Hamilton says lamely. He grows tired of this game.

“Now now.”

Klaus grabs Hamilton's collar and hauls him back up to sitting, cracking Hamilton's head back against the wall so he yelps again in pain, Klaus causing the cut on Hamilton’s face to scrape over the wood. Hamilton wonders when they plan to start using the blade end of the cuttoe with more efficiency. Perhaps he will pass out first.

“You have no reason for your dismissal and silence,” Arbor says, tapping the point of the blade on the wood near Hamilton's foot. “All men break, it is fact. Why put yourself through more?”

“To make you work for it,” Hamilton counters, “I am not so quick a courter.”

Arbor barks a laugh. “So funny. I do enjoy it.”

Arbor leans forward, grabs Hamilton's wounded hand and digs his thumb into the cut so Hamilton cannot help but scream.

“Tell me of the new foreigner in your camp. We know his name, Steuben, not just another Frenchman; what does he bring you?”

Hamilton clenches his teeth, shuts his eyes, he tries to think of the Caribbean, of simple harsh cold but Arbor's nails digging into his wound are sharp and insistent, forcing him to stay right there.

“Nothing? Well, what if I should cut off your finger?” Arbor says, putting the sword right against Hamilton's fingers. “How good an aide would you be then?”

Suddenly they hear a commotion outside. All the Rangers and Hessians turn toward the door.

“Weber and Schmidt?”

One ranger walks to the door, opening it a crack. “The horses,” he says, “Shit, they've broken free.”

He opens the door, takes one step outside then suddenly cries out and falls forward. The ranger, Smith, on the crate and Klaus laugh.

“Bradley, can you not walk properly?”

The two men near the door push it wide and a musket shot knocks one hessian down to the floor. Arbor and those still sitting jump up as a man in a continental uniform bursts into the hut. Hamilton sees the musket fall to the ground, as he unsheathes his sword, an axe in his other hand like a Roman god of war and they make eye contact. It is Laurens – oh, John – his Laurens.

Arbor ducks as Laurens comes at him, swinging his sword. Laurens smashes the axe in his other hand right into the neck of Smith who is far slower. The axe pins Smith to the wall for an instant before Laurens yanks it back out again and Smith crumples to the wood his head nearly struck from his body. Arbor Lunges forward, Roberts right behind him but Laurens parries their swords with his own. 

The space in the hut in small, just wide enough to fit all the men inside at once, perhaps ten foot square, and not conducive at all to fighting. Laurens twists with the two of them, elbows Roberts so he hits the wall and trips backward over Smith, falling into the crates. Arbor hacks at Laurens with his sword, tries to reach for his pistol but Laurens slices at Arbor's hand with his axe, Arbor just jumping away in time.

Then Klaus pushes Arbor aside, Arbor nearly falling over Hamilton, and catches Laurens' arm with his own short sword. Laurens shouts, hits the wall then lashes out with a kick to Klaus' knee. Klaus falls down to one knee then Laurens slashes him across the face with his sword.

“Klaus!” Roberts shouts in alarm as he finally stands once more near the barrels.

Laurens takes two steps and stabs the distracted Roberts through the stomach. Roberts gasps in surprise, his hands grasping at Laurens' sword. Laurens pulls the sword out and stabs him again. 

Roberts starts to whimper, “No... no...”

Laurens slashes him a third time across the chest and throat, blood peppering Laurens' pristine breeches.

Hamilton pushes his back against the wall and uses it is shove himself up to standing. Laurens has barely looked at him since entering the hut, just that fist moment to see Hamilton there and alive. Laurens appears a man unstoppable now.

Laurens turns away from Roberts lying motionless and bleeding, back to Klaus who attempts to stand despite the blood streaming down his face. Klaus heaves an arm around to stab at Laurens' thigh in the same moment that Arbor finishes loading his pistol. Laurens ducks back toward the door to avoid Arbor's shot causing Klaus to miss his aim, only nicking Laurens' leg slightly, though he still bleeds.

“Laurens!” Hamilton cries.

Laurens, however, seems to not hear Hamilton as he brings the axe down on Klaus' arm so Klaus screams and tries to twist away. Laurens pulls the axe up, brings it down again, and pierces Klaus' shoulder. Arbor tries to pull Laurens off his compatriot but Laurens slams Arbor back against the wall with one arm so he falls. Arbor moves to stand again but Hamilton lunges forward, grabs one of the hessian’s helmets where it lies near the wall, and hits Arbor over the head with it.

“Laurens!” Hamilton cries, stepping around Roberts, avoiding the pool of blood, past the now unconscious Arbor.

Laurens pulls back his sword over Klaus once more to stab deep into his chest near his heart. The hessian grunts, blood flowing, and stops moving. Laurens, however, brings up the axe again. He looks ready to hack the hessian until nothing remains.

“Laurens!” Hamilton then grasps Laurens' sword hand with his bound ones.

Laurens suddenly stops. He turns and looks at Hamilton – spots of blood on Laurens' cravat, his chin, splashes on his buff lapels and more on his breeches. 

“Enough,” Hamilton says. “Enough.”

Laurens looks down, blinks at Hamilton's hands on his. His fingers shift over Hamilton’s cut. “Your hand.”

“I know, but not now.” 

Hamilton moves his hands around so he may saw the ropes binding him over the edge of Laurens' sword. Once free, he wraps his wounded hand around his aching middle, his breath heavy, then crouches down to pick up Smith's fallen pistol. Laurens sheathes his sword, blood dripping from the handle. Then he reaches out and touches the cuts over Hamilton's face.

“Hamilton...”

“Not now,” Hamilton says again.

Laurens presses his lips together then nods once at Hamilton. He turns, his hand on Hamilton's arm and leads them out of the hut. Hamilton sees Bradley outside on the ground. He cannot tell if the man is dead or not. Hamilton sees the remains of the horse leads, clearly cut by Laurens, though one horse still lingers among the trees. Laurens walks them over, slow enough that Hamilton can keep up. His body hurts more now from standing and walking. He tastes blood in his mouth.

“Here.” Laurens puts his axe down, leaning it against his leg, and pulls out his handkerchief. He wraps it around Hamilton's hand and ties it off making Hamilton wince. Hamilton sees Laurens' eyes jerk up but he says nothing.

Then Laurens picks up the axe once more and moves Hamilton toward the horse. “Come on.”

He helps Hamilton up into the saddle. Hamilton's stomach stabs, his chest tight and he feels nauseous. How hard did Klaus kick him? Hamilton keeps the pistol in his good hand, his eye on the hut as Laurens ties the axe to the side of the horse. He glances down at the horse and notices more powder and shot in the saddle bag. Good, they may still need that. Then Laurens heaves himself up behind Hamilton in the saddle.

“You did not consider two horses?” Hamilton asks though he would not for the world wish to be further away from Laurens.

“No,” Laurens replies, “I did not.” And Hamilton knows Laurens feels the same.

Then Laurens slides his arms under Hamilton's, pulls on the reigns and the horse canters away from the hut and men left inside.

 

Laurens pushes the horse on, back through the forest, trying to keep it at least trotting despite the undergrowth. He wants as much space between Hamilton and his captors as can be. Laurens feels Hamilton breathing against his chest, the occasional hitch which Laurens' knows is from pain. Hamilton keeps one of his hands close to his stomach so Laurens worries at what internal injury might have been done to him. Laurens can do nothing about that now, he can only get them away.

“You are hurt,” Hamilton says.

“What?”

“Your arm and Klaus caught your leg too.”

“Klaus?” Laurens says mildly thinking of the hessian on the floor, the blood still on Laurens' sword.

“I saw, he –”

“I am well enough, you are not. We must return to Valley Forge. This cold will not help you.”

Laurens feels Hamilton turn his face toward Laurens' seated behind him. Laurens sees the red of the cut on Hamilton's face out of the corner of his eyes.

“You did not need to come for me,” Hamilton says quietly.

Laurens watches the trees, sees the road up ahead with the one ranger lying in the snow. “Yes, I did.”

As their horse steps out onto the road – Laurens spies his own horse still waiting where he left it tied to a tree – a musket shot flies past them, so close Laurens hears the movement of air by his ear. The horse rears in surprise and, with the two of them in a saddle meant for one, they cannot keep balance. The two of them fall onto the snow, Hamilton hitting Laurens' hurt arm as he rolls away so Laurens cries out once, Hamilton shouting too. Laurens ignores the slight pain and heaves himself over onto his knees once more, pulling out his sword. He looks into the tree line and sees the two rangers and the Hessian who led him to the hut.

“Stop!” the lead ranger calls. 

The Hessian levels his weapon but Laurens lunges forward anyway, the hessian's gun misfires, and Laurens strikes the Ranger he heard called Bradley.

Bradley jumps back, Laurens' sword causing only a graze.

“Did you imagine you could escape?” the lead ranger shouts at Hamilton as he advances on him.

“Do you think we will not now, Arbor?” Hamilton asks as he cocks his pistol.

Arbor jolts to the side so he puts Laurens between himself and Hamilton. Laurens hears Hamilton growl in frustration but then Laurens advances on Arbor. Their swords connect, the hessian moves toward Hamilton, and Bradley regroups. Then everything happens in rapid succession. 

Laurens and Arbor trade blows so Laurens slides back toward the horse, the hessian runs for Hamilton, Laurens knocks back against the horse and is able to grab the axe as Bradley throws a knife toward Hamilton. Hamilton ducks, the hessian slips in the snow giving Hamilton the opening to grab the fallen knife and stab the hessian in the leg. He screams as Hamilton stumbles away from him, holding his middle and doubling over but he stays standing, pistol still in hand. Then Laurens swings the axe around and brings it up against Arbor's throat, his attention too focused on Laurens' sword. In his peripheral vision, Laurens sees Bradley and Hamilton now pointing their pistols at each other.

“Stop!” Laurens shouts and everything stops moving.

Hamilton falls to one knee, his arm still up as he stares at Bradley, though his arms shakes and he breathes shallow. Laurens switches his eyes to Arbor – axe at Arbor’s neck and their swords grinding together.

“Stop,” Laurens repeats, keeping his axe hand firm. No one speaks for two breaths then Laurens says, “I would gladly continue this.” He speaks slow and steady so they understand his intent. “I would stay and kill all three of you but my man is hurt and so is one of yours.”

“Yes,” Arbor replies.

“If you step away now and allow us to leave then I shall stop. I shall not chase you. I shall forget you.”

Laurens sees Hamilton turn his head toward Laurens out of the corner of his eye.

“But if you do not, if you choose to press on, to take either of us or hurt him more then, believe me, I will kill you, be it now or how every long it should take.” Laurens stares at Arbor, does not waver. “I will kill you. I will not forget your face. Do you understand me?” Arbor stares back at him. He does not need to say yes. “So walk away.”

The silence stretches for several breathes, the group of them staring, waiting. Then Arbor breathes in deeply, “We will go.”

Laurens takes one step back, pulls his sword down though he keeps the axe ready in case. Arbor nods his head and Bradley lowers his pistol. 

Laurens steps further back and points toward the woods with the axe. “Back to your hut. I will not follow you.”

Arbor stares then spits on the snow near Laurens’ feet. “You are a savage.”

Laurens' jaw clenches then he smiles unkindly back. “A savage who lets a monster walk away.”

Arbor sneers and shakes his head. He walks back toward Bradley who is helping the hessian stand. Laurens watches them until they turn and walk back into the woods.

Laurens then whirls around and crouches near Hamilton. He puts his arm around him and pulls him up. “Come now.”

“Laurens...”

“We must get you back on the horse.”

Hamilton breathes in deeply, leans against Laurens. “Laurens, I...”

Laurens' chest feels tight, the wrath and fear and drive ebbing away with Hamilton safe beside him. Now he sees the blood on the snow, the first dead man still lying near, everything he did, Hamilton needing to stop him.

“Hamilton, I did not... I could not leave...”

Hamilton tips his head up and kisses Laurens' words away. He slides his good hand up Laurens' cheek, touches his hair, kisses him again – the feeling of the cut on Hamilton's lip against Laurens' – then pulls away to breathe against Laurens' neck. Laurens holds him tight, keeps him standing and feels warm for one moment among the ice and snow.

“You should not have come,” Hamilton whispers, “but I am glad you did.”

“So am I.” Laurens touches the wound on Hamilton's cheek. “But now we must go.”

Laurens helps Hamilton up onto the stolen horse then walks into the woods to retrieve his own from camp. He unties the mare, puts his hat on his head then climbs into the saddle and trots back out beside Hamilton. He puts his cloak over Hamilton's shoulders.

“Can you ride?” Laurens asks at the slump of Hamilton's body nearer the horse’s neck.

Hamilton nods. “I must. The sooner for us to return.”

“You ride in front,” Laurens says. “I shall follow.”

Laurens need not say he will not take his eyes off Hamilton.

 

When they arrive back at Valley Forge, their progress hindered by Hamilton's weakened and injured state, darkness has fallen. Laurens rides beside Hamilton now, his one hand on the reigns of Hamilton's horse. Hamilton truly had thought himself able to ride but the last half hour of their progress required Laurens to steer his horse on. Finally, however, they cross the outer perimeter and near General Washington's headquarters. As they come within sight, Hamilton sees a figure waiting on the front steps, cloak wrapped around him.

“Laurens! Hamilton!” The figure cries and Hamilton recognizes the voice as Lafayette.

Laurens stops both their horses then jumps down from his own. He comes around the one side of Hamilton's horse. He grips Hamilton's arm then puts an arm around Hamilton’s waist to pull him down. Hamilton all put falls off the horse and stumbles against Laurens when his feet hit the snow once more.

“Mon deiu!” Lafayette cries as he comes near them, gripping the reigns of one horse. His face is a mix of elation and concern. “What has happened?”

Hamilton leans heavily against Laurens, his one arm over Lauren's shoulders. “Mrs. Washington returned safely?” Hamilton asks Lafayette. “Meade, Fitzgerald?”

“Yes, yes, Laurens could have told you this, what of you?”

“His captors were less than hospitable,” Laurens answers.

Lafayette looks wildly between them. “You must explain.”

“Not now,” Laurens says. “Hamilton is injured and needs seeing to.”

“Oui.” Lafayette turns to call out but Tilghman and Fitzgerald have started down the stairs now in anticipation.

“What in god's name!” Fitzgerald shouts when he sees Hamilton and Laurens.

“Here, here,” Tilghman says, taking the horse from Lafayette. “Let his Excellency know.”

Fitzgerald turns right around again and runs back to the house.

“I shall summon a doctor,” Lafayette says. He touches Hamilton's face quickly, then kisses his unharmed cheek. “Stupid man, both of you.”

“Yes,” Laurens says, “I am.”

Lafayette smiles grimly then hurries around them toward the main camp. Hamilton and Laurens walk toward the house, moving slowly up the stairs. When they step into the hall, the door closed behind them, General Washington exits his office and stops resolutely in front of them. Hamilton feels Laurens stiffen.

“Lieutenant Colonels,” General Washington says.

“Your Excellency,” They say together.

The General is silent for a long moment, a strange expression on his face. Finally he says, “In the future Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, you will ask your commanding offering before leaving camp on your own on a foolhardy rescue mission which has the most dubious expectation of success. You will remember proper military procedure and not allow even such bonds of friendship to sway your actions.”

Laurens stands up taller, though his hand tightens around Hamilton. “Yes, sir.”

“General Lafayette was good enough to tell me of your plan and supported your aim, though by all rights I should discipline you for such as he is not your commanding officer.”

“Sir, I did not ask him to –”

General Washington puts up his hand and Laurens stops talking. Hamilton wonders what in the world Lafayette must have said because, even through the pain fogging his senses, Hamilton can see the General is not truly angry.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.” 

Hamilton tries to stand up into something closer to attention. He sees Laurens give him a sharp look but Hamilton manages shoulders back and chin up. “Sir.”

“You have my most sincere thanks for your service and sacrifice to the protection of my wife. I am indebted to you.”

Hamilton stares for a moment then nods back. “Thank you, sir.” He cannot think what else to say.

“Laurens, take him upstairs and to bed. We shall send the doctor up to attend him.”

“Yes, sir.”

The General turns away, back to his office. Hamilton turns to see Harrison, Fitzgerald and Caleb Gibbs in the aide office. The three look at him with concern but clear happiness to see him returned.

“Truly the little lion,” Harrison remarks making Gibbs and Tilghman both laugh quietly.

Hamilton only smiles back as Laurens leads him away and up the stairs.

 

One of the camp doctors comes with Lafayette and sees to Hamilton and Laurens. 

Upon their arrival Hamilton hears Laurens speak low to Lafayette at the door, “I did not ask you to lie for me.”

Lafayette only touches Laurens arm and replies, “I did not lie,” before walking back out into the hall once more.

The doctor takes careful care of the two of them. Laurens wounds are mostly superficial, though the sword wound to his arm needs bandaging. Hamilton, as expected, fared worse. The Doctor puts a bandage to Hamilton's face and hand; adds salves to most of his darker bruises and a cloth to his head. He declares that Hamilton does not have any broken bones, a wonder with the beating he took, though his ribs and innards were likely bruised and he should remain in bed at least a week.

After the doctor leaves, teas and herbs for Hamilton to consume, the door closed and privacy found, Laurens sits on the edge of the bed. He wears only his shirt and breeches, no blood marring his clothes or skin now, hair coming loose around his face. Hamilton aches and even lying on the bed remains uncomfortable but the sight of Laurens close beside him eases it some. Laurens watches Hamilton in the dim candle light as he runs his fingers through Hamilton's hair making Hamilton feel drowsy and warm.

“You shall heal well,” Laurens says, “if you stay abed.”

“I shall. It is you they should worry for.”

“No, it is barely a wound.”

“See, disregard for your own person.” Laurens sighs but Hamilton continues. “Although, there is worse to worry on.”

Laurens frowns. “What?”

Hamilton smiles slowly. “I have lost my hat.”

Laurens chuckles at Hamilton’s attempt at levity. “Ah, there I can alleviate your worry.” 

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. Laurens points at the dresser in the corner. Hamilton sees a hat resting on top, his hat. He turns his head back to Laurens with a tired smile. “A true hero then.”

Laurens smiles slightly and touches the bandage on Hamilton's hand. “Alexander, my actions... You seeing me as… I know you may have seen me as a... yes, perhaps a savage then, more so than even on a battle field.” Laurens glances away. “How I acted… You forced to stop me in your state and I could only see these men who harmed you.”

“I did not see this,” Hamilton says, reaching out with his other hand to run it over Laurens' forearm. Laurens turns back to Hamilton. 

“What else could you have seen? I acted a madman and even now a part of me wishes I had slain them all.”

Hamilton smiles. “I do not think you a madman. I think you brave, I think you rash perhaps, but I do not think you a savage. I think you a man of passion and love.” Laurens makes a small noise and looks down at their hands, attempting to hide his emotion now even though he could not hide such from Hamilton. Hamilton smiles again, rubs a line over Laurens' arm. “I see my dearest and my champion this day.” Hamilton laughs quietly. “I am glad you are my champion.”

Laurens looks up at Hamilton again, his eyes shining with the candle light. “I am glad you think me so.”

“I always shall.”

Laurens leans over and gently kisses Hamilton's lips, his hand moving to rest against the bandage on Hamilton's cheek. Hamilton kisses him back, remembers the intimacy of that very morning and wishes for hundreds more mornings. Laurens kisses him twice, his lips light but long against Hamilton's. Then he presses his forehead against Hamilton's.

“Sleep,” Laurens says. He slides his hand up over Hamilton's eyes. Hamilton listens now to the sound of Laurens' voice. “Sleep, you are safe, and you must heal.”

“My John,” Hamilton murmurs. 

“My Alexander,” Laurens whispers back.

Hamilton breathes deeply, feels Laurens hands on his, forgets danger and pain and falls back into sleep with the warm press of a man at his side.


End file.
